She'd Heard the Story Before
by Auchen
Summary: For once, he's not the one doing the comforting.


_**A/N:** _ I'm in the process of trying to wrangle the next chapter of Neither Nightingale Nor Hawk, but in the mean time these two were still bothering me to write something with them, so this happened. The story and its title are inspired by the song "Red" by Martha Tilston.

* * *

 _"So she said to the wolf '(...), you're looking down'_  
 _She wrapped her arms around him_  
 _And the love nearly spun him round._  
 _The love just broke him down."_

-Red by Martha Tilston  
-

Even with the way his body aches, he wishes that he could press a hand to her forehead and wipe away that crease that has formed there. It's a strange thought for a man to have, he supposes, when one is lying on a bed with ugly bruises painting a good expanse of his face and abdomen.

Not to mention the knife wound in the side. (But he'll recover. He always does. The wounds will just be another lumpy scar added to the topography of his marred skin.) But still, it hurts, and he still thinks that most people would be too consumed by their own pounding pain to be fretting over the fact that they were causing someone else discomfort.

But Red has never been "most people" and it always makes his heart twinge when he knows that he's been the cause of Lizzie being upset.

"What were you thinking?" Her arms are across her chest, a barrier between the two of them. Or perhaps a stopper against the emotions that might be churning beneath her surface.

"I was thinking that the man with the brass knuckles had a sloppy left hook. If he wanted to do more damage, he should've moved his feet more," he says. He manages to crack a smile, though it sends a line of pain up to his temple.

"How can you joke about this?" She waves a hand, indicating the entirety of his battered body.

How could be not? If he doesn't, the only other option is to seriously ruminate on the fact that he dangles on the precipice of death on a fairly regular basis, and he's certain that isn't a good thing. When you get that close, when you stand there too much, you can get used to it. You can start to care too little, and then living at the edge of that cliff or falling over it don't start to sound much different. But if he jokes about it-then he knows that it is something serious that must be dealt with in a calm, rational manner. That life is something that must be clung onto.

"Don't look so glum. A little dark humor never killed anyone, did it?" It probably had, but that was beside the point.

But his light attitude only seems to drive her further down the path of irritation and concern, for the line in her brow turns into a jagged canyon. She slips down in the chair near his bed, head down for a moment as she contemplates the hands in her lap. Red almost wishes he hadn't said what he did, but if he faces the reality-that if she hadn't arrived in time and shot the kneecaps of the man who had been in the process of using him as a punching bag-then he could've ended up in much worse shape than he was now. And if it was worse, then she'd be forced to waste more time worrying over him. He doesn't deserve that kind of concern. He's a foolish man who's landed himself in worse scrapes than this and will likely land himself into worse situations in the future. It's a waste to spend any precious energy on a lost cause.

"Whenever something happens to me, you're always there. You never act like I don't deserve it, but if anyone tries to show you an ounce of pity, you throw it away." Lizzie digs a fingernail into her palm. Her greasy bangs hang over her eyes.

He opens his mouth to say that he's always there because _she_ deserves it. She always does. She's bright, she's brilliant, and if a twisted thing like him can act as a support column for her to grow up toward the sun, then he will have counted himself as the luckiest man alive. A trellis doesn't ask for the ivy to comfort it as it crumbles and breaks beneath the heat of the day. The trellis is merely there to give the ivy what it needs, and when the trellis collapses under the weight of years and weather, the ivy isn't meant to look down at it with pity.

"No." She holds up a finger. He closes his mouth. "Please, just...let me finish, and then you can say whatever it is that you want, even if it's annoying." At that, she gives a shadow of a smile.

"Just let me be there for you for once. A...relationship-that is, a partnership isn't equal if one of the parties is always giving and supporting but never gets anything in return. I get that you're guarded, that there are reasons why you are the way you are, but just-" her hand twitches as it flutters to her hair and, where it settles for a moment before she drops it again. Her chest heaves with a sigh. "Even if it's just this one time, let me be there for you."

He inhales a shallow breath, throat suddenly dry. He knows that she has some fondness for him, even if it's only occasional. She's said as much before. But she's never lain it out so bare for him to see, and he almost can't look at the truth of it, because even though he believes that she thinks she's speaking the truth, she can't possibly know what she's saying. Can't possibly know that trying to give comfort to a misshapen thing like him is a lost cause, but-

If what she needs is to be there for him, then he'll let her. If not for himself, then for her own peace of mind, if only to make that worry line in her forehead go away.

So he nods. "All right."

He expects her to ask what's wrong, or maybe briefly put a hand on his, but instead, she half-sits up from the chair and leans over him, carefully keeping her arms away from his neck so she doesn't make him hurt anymore than he already does. Her hands gently lay against his shoulders. It's awkward-it's a tentative, hovering half-embrace that doesn't make much contact, but it doesn't matter. The sudden show of affection makes his eyes flutter closed, makes him suddenly sharply inhale. Despite the fact that his body aches and throbs, he shoves the discomfort aside and wraps his arms around her the best he can, though he manages to fumble and bump against the circle of her arms, but eventually they are wrapped together in a mutual, strange embrace made of tangled limbs and nerves.

Her arms droop a bit, coming closer around his neck. He leans the edge of his forehead against her throat.

After a moment she says, "Thank you."

He exhales a laugh. "You're welcome."

But really, he thinks he should be the one desperately thanking her.


End file.
